


A Soul For Sale

by FereldanDorkMage



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crying, Dark!John?, F/F, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:49:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FereldanDorkMage/pseuds/FereldanDorkMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has got a soul for sale.</p>
<p>Inspired by https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmG1tCVsES4<br/>I saw John in the video, and my mind started going in one direction, at full speed.<br/>This is that direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John stared at his hand, studying how pale his fingertips were from gripping the arm of the chair he was sitting in with force that he could easily call vice-like. He stared at his fingertips, taking in how close to the skin he cut the nail, and then later, how much closer he bit them. He studied the cords that could be seen in the back of his hands. He closed his eyes and counted down, the numbers flashing in his mind as he thought them.

They stayed closed when he reached one, and he began remembering. He remembered Ms Hudson on the ground, her forehead bleeding, and she kept on whispering, “he’s gone, John. I’m so sorry, he’s gone.” He remembered encrypted calls with that fucking voice- on that haunted his mind when he was left alone on the other end, taunting him even when he wasn’t trying. He remembered how much he had felt that was yet wasn't his to feel as soon as he realized he was heart-broken. He remembered all the emotion that had flooded him over the past two weeks. Then he remembered why he was there.

John looked up. He stared at Lestrade, forcing the eye contact he knew the man wanted to avoid desperately. It was his petty revenge for what he knew was coming. When Lestrade looked down he narrowed his eyes and placed his attentions on Mycroft, knowing the two across from him were already preparing to deal with their actions fallout yet again. Mycroft closed his eyes and moved his head slightly to the left in an almost non-existent motion. John saw it.

John closed his eyes, his grip on the chairs soft arms tightening dangerously. He exhaled, leveled his war-calm gaze and nodded.

“Don’t blame me for the things I have to do to clean up your mess. I shouldn't have trusted you. I hope he still does, but I never should have.”

John stood up quickly, turning and walking out with his hands down by his side, his back straight and his stride steady- purposeful. John pulled out his phone, pressing the keys to redial and simply stating, “You win.”

He slid into the backseat of the car that pulled up beside him, not bothering with the buckle. Fate wasn't kind enough to let him die in a car crash.

John kept imaging putting two bullets in him- One in the brain, and One in the heart. But he couldn't do that. He had to pull Sherlock out. He could feel the fear, and he couldn't let Him stay there, not with _him_. So now John had made a deal.

The buildings passed by, but John focused on the people, watching them move for just a few seconds each. He was taking it in, gathering what few facts about each person’s lives he could from the insignificant moments he was given to observe.

A kid laughing in hysterics, out of breath. Probably a result of a narrow escape from some stupid prank that had been successful.

A man crying outside a clinic. He had a hospital band in his hand. Too small to be his. He’d lost someone.

A girl ripping a flower up. She was grinning, and she obviously was infatuated with the boy at the food cart who kept waving at her..

God, they had no idea what they lived in the middle of. If they knew, they would drop all these mundane things and learn how to aim a gun.

The car stopped, and John got out, not even bothering to acknowledge the driver as he did so. He walked up the steps and kicked the door open.

His heart crumbled in on itself, and he lost his armor, the chain mail he had carefully constructed to protect himself was scrap metal. For a second, at the sight of him standing there with that look of broken resignation and pain written on his face, John was lost. A look he was sending John’s way. Then the plates came back up. He kept walking.

He stood at attention his hands clasped behind his back

“Me for him?”

“I’ll take that deal.”

Sherlock surged forward, shouting all the reasons John couldn't agree to do that. Moran caught him and threw him to the ground. He kicked him, obviously putting force into it, and Sherlock curled in on himself, a little cry escaping his lips. John felt the pavement hit his knees, he felt the steel toe hit his skin, and he felt utter despondency seep over his forced calm, and anger surged in him, crashing against his thoughts like waves attacking a lighthouse..

John smiled, his fists clenching so hard he knew there’d be skin under his nails.

“I’ll take it as soon as I can touch him.”

Sherlock stood up, swaying a little on his feet. He wiped blood away for his lips and stepped toward John. They met in the middle, John pulling Sherlock toward him, their bodies flush. He cupped Sherlock’s face, pulling him closer. John ignored the bruises and the cut on his lip that he knew would scar. He tasted blood and salt water as their lips clashed. He felt a powerful surge of raw emotion that pulled in so many directions. He felt his own emotion. He pulled away.

Sherlock whispered.

John closed his eyes. “I know.” He nodded, his forehead rubbing against Sherlock’s. “I know.”

He turned to Moriarty, his hand still connected. “I accept everything.”

“But?”

“You have to promise to leave Sherlock alone no matter what. No involvement or interference with him at all can occur. No Holmes can be touched by anyone in your order.”

Moriarty grinned. “I like you. Fine, this could be fun. Why not?”

Sherlock’s grip on his hand tightened, and John pulled the hands up. He looked into Sherlock’s brilliant eyes, cataloging every colour that filled his irises.

“Love, you have to go outside. Mycroft and Greg will be there, waiting for you.” He watched his expression shift, and sighed. “You have too. Please do this for me, love.”

He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s hand before dropping it and turning away. He walked away, not looking back. He stood beside Moriarty, opposite of Moran, with his face towards the wall. He just barely didn't flinch when the door slammed shut.

Moriarty walked away, calling out “Oh, good show. Bit sappy toward the end, but nevertheless fun.”

Moran reached over and clasped his shoulder. “Welcome to our little home grown crime syndicate.”

He turned and looked at Moran. “Sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

John followed Moriarty and Sebastian, walking just behind them and towards a run-down projects building that practically radiated misery despite every instinct that screamed at him to turn and run back to Baker St. as fast as his legs would carry him. He couldn't run, so he walked behind two men he knew were playing games.

They walked into the building, John failing to catch the heavy door on his way in before it clipped him. Moriarty smiled a little at John when a gust of breath left his lungs in protest to the sudden impact, and John thought the smile was far too smug. He smiled back as innocently as possible, keeping all of the sass out of the expression, but portraying it perfectly. Moran choked on a poor attempt to hide a laugh and Moriarty looked almost-livid.

John accepted this as his first petty victory of what he hoped would be many.

John looked around, and he wasn't even surprised, even if he was feeling a certain amount of intrigue that he was certain to keep off his face. The last thing he needed was Moriarty knowing more than strictly necessary about what was going on in his head.

“Bit posh for a slum, yeah?” Moran smiled at him, and it was almost familiar. John nodded in reply.

He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes flicking as he inspected the ceiling, and he felt a little disoriented. Walking and staring up did nothing for one’s sense of balance, but he still did appreciate the beauty of the place. He also knew it would be a horrid idea to start acting flippant now. He needed to make an ally, or at least make the best of his situation, and Moran seemed like he’d let John’s lies about how little he hated the place slip.

“Yeah,” he looked Moran in the eye, and then he cracked a smile. Best to look comfortable. “Bit like a hotel, honestly. Ridiculous.”

Moran’s grin stretched, pulling up the corners and lifting them towards his ears. “Well,” Moran gestured towards Moriarty with a small sweep of his hand, “He does enjoy his luxuries. You’re gonna love it here.”

The trio stopped walking, pausing movement in favour of standing in front of a room with a wide-open door. The room held two twin-sized beds that were made-up with an almost-military perfection and threadbare linens. There were enough clothes in different sizes to suggest several girls shared the room spilling from the laundry, but only one girl was in the room, sitting in the middle of the floor

She looked up at the men, and her expression shifted almost instantly. She looked ready for battle. John couldn't help but notice that Moriarty seemed oblivious to the fact. Or maybe he didn't care.

“She’s your’s.” Moran gave him a wink after his counterpart had finished speaking. “Good catch.”

John began speaking before he even knew what the words falling out of his mouth were.  “What? I mean, I’m sure you caught on to the fact already, but I’m not straight.”

“No. You’re not. You’re bisexual, and I hardly care either way. Do with her what you will, but if she gets into trouble, it’s your issue.” Moriarty seemed rather detached from the whole issue, like he wasn’t singing a girl away to the control of someone both older than her and meant to be an assassin, or blatantly airing personal information that some people liked to keep to themselves.

Not that any desire for privacy mattered once such things had been breached.

Moran stepped forward, putting a hand on the girls shoulder and licking his bottom lip. “If you don’t want her, I’ll take her. I’m sure I can find something to do with her. Keep her out of your way.”

Everything in John’s being rebelled against what he was seeing. The predatory look in the man’s eyes. He was staring at her like meat. Like she was some grazing animal that came too close to a hungry predator. Insticts that had only grown stronger aroun Sherlock kicked in. His brain calmed, and he saw everything a bit more clearly, as if he had switched to the HD channel. He stepped forward.

“Thank you for offering. You’re honestly too kind, but I wouldn't want to put that kind of burden on you. I’ll take her with me.” The girl’s shoulder was released from Moran’s grasp, and John helped her stand on her own feet.

Moriarty and Moran began walking again, and John briefly glimpsed at the girl to ensure she could walk along aide the group before following closely them. She followed close behind.

* * *

Sherlock lay in a hospital bed, his body under the poor excuse for a blanket that had pulled up to his chest. His breathing was far too shallow for him to be sleeping, but he still stayed in a state of relaxers rest. It was what john would want, after all.

It came rushing back in technicolour, and when emotion hit him like a freight train, his first reaction was to whisper, “John.”

His second, was to stand up and slip his almost jacket (which had been left draped over a ridiculously uncomfortable chair by someone who had spent an equally uncomfortable amount of time in the chair) on over the scrubs he had been dressed in. He walked out of his hospital room, strode purposely out the front door without bothering to stop by the reception desk, and continued on towards Baker Street, slowing his walk to a more leisurely pace to ward off attention or suspicion. He didn't bother ducking CCTV cameras. Mycroft wouldn't  _dare._

When he reached Baker Street, his eyes went to the red arm chair,t he one John always sat in, and he almost started to share the details of the case he was mentally building. Then he remembered the chair was empty, and he felt like a punch had been landed in the center of his bruised stomach. 

Sherlock was paralyzed.

* * *

 

Lestrade got to the hospital at seven'o'clock, sharp. Just like he'd been doing for the past week of Sherlock's medically induces coma/Mycroft's semi-total mental breakdown/His month-long (forces) leave from the yard.

Everythingwas fine until he got to the room Sherlock was meant to be in and saw a mussed up bed. He turned on his heel and began striding purposefully towards the hospital's exit, pulling out his phone to call Mycroft before he decided against such an action. He'd find Sherlock himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment after the work!  
> *wooork*


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